


Epilogue

by adastra615



Category: The Trip (TV 2010)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hospitals, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 07:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20524370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adastra615/pseuds/adastra615
Summary: Rob visits Steve in the hospital after the events of "The Trip to Spain"





	Epilogue

Rob sat in a hard plastic chair. His back was starting to ache and the hospital lights were overly bright. He'd been reading Don Quixote. He hadn't been entirely honest in saying he'd finished it - but now he would. He'd read a few lines under his breath throwing in a few odd voices here and there, but Steve in a hospital bed, drugged to the gills didn't seem aware. It was the stillest he'd ever seen him and it was disconcerting, so much so he wanted to shake his shoulders to bring some life into him - but he was motionless and pallid, and the heart monitor beat rhythmically, and Rob thought he might go mad soon, so he kept reading or pretending to read, looking up every other sentence to see if maybe now something had changed.

There was a thin IV line in his wrist; he'd been severely dehydrated - being in the desert for a week, held prisoner would do that. He was lucky the English were willing to negotiate with terrorists, at least when it came to their comic national treasures, otherwise he'd probably be dead, and Rob wouldn’t be in this room with his friend. He didn't think he'd ever get Steve to admit that they were actually friends, rather he would shrug it off, add some sort of qualifier to it. "I'd say we're _probably_ friends” - or something like that, because if there was one thing he couldn’t admit to it was an actual genuine human emotion, at least not to Rob.

There was a thin cut on his cheekbone and now it wouldn’t just be his chin he was self-conscious about. He'd be looking in the mirror, pulling the scar taunt and trying to determine if it made him more dashing or if it just added to the inevitable decline.

Rob was feeling horribly melancholy. Steve had been his idol for a long time and then somehow they'd become friends – yes friends, even if Steve wouldn’t admit to it - even if it was a prickly relationship where they sniped at each other, picked each other apart - there had always been a sense that it was just a veneer to the deeper feelings they might have for each other. Comedy could be lonely - comedy came from pain - and Steve was the funniest person Rob knew. There was a sadness to his core - that perhaps wasn't visible at first but it didn't take long to see it, and Rob loved that part of him - loved him for it because it felt real - it felt like something he could understand in a person that was otherwise inscrutable.

Rob wasn't afraid to admit that Steve was sharper, that Steve was his friend, that he found him brilliant, but he could never imagine Steve saying the same thing about him - it would ring false.

Rob contemplated him for a moment over the top of his book. His lips were cracked and dry, his skin tanner. He had stubble on his cheeks, a dark bruise under his right eye, and his shoulder was in a sling. They'd only manhandled him a little, but he wondered what they had threatened him with - how afraid he'd actually been. Don Quixote tilting at windmills, doing exactly what he'd said he would do during their whole trip - how he'd like adventure and danger. He'd probably only been horrified in the actual situation and Rob felt the hairs rise on his neck just thinking about it. He'd been a bit different on this trip– it was subtle: you would only notice if you actually knew him - because he'd had his timing right - and his impressions and his jokes - and he'd laughed a little harder at Rob's jokes than he ever remembered. There was an ease to him now - an openness that he thought maybe the years had contributed to. Before he'd been defensive and closed off - he would prickle at the things he found uncomfortable - death and aging - and any sort of compliment he didn't give himself.

"Come, come, Mr. Bond,” he tried, hoping for some sort of response. If anything could summon Steve Coogan back into the waking world it had to be a James Bond impression. "Now, Mr. Bond, it's very hard to go about poisoning you when you're already asleep. The game is unfairly stacked against me, I believe." Rob sighed, settling back down into the plastic chair, trying once again to read a few sentences. The words started to blur together and the drone of the lights overhead caused him to nod. The book slipped from his grasp and fell shut in his lap.

_***_

_Turn on the light_, Steve thought. But he couldn’t move. He swallowed, his mouth dry. His body felt numb. What had he taken? Had he let someone lure him back to his old vices? It was cold, and he shivered. _Hadn't it been horribly warm for a while?_ His thoughts felt sluggish. Something was wrong - but in that moment he couldn’t say what.

"Steve?"

The voice had come somewhere to his right. He made a sound he thought was yes, but it didn't sound right. He recognized the voice that was calling to him. He couldn’t decide if he was happy for that or not. But it was like he was floating – _god, whatever he had taken was good_\- it would be hard not to want more of it- it should have bothered him more but in the moment the thought felt unimportant.

He opened his eyes and took in the figure asleep in the chair next to the wall.

"Rob."

What he wouldn't give for a glass of water right about now. There was an empty cup he managed to get his somewhat unresponsive fingers to wrap around. With a pitiful throw, he lobbed it in Rob's direction. It hit him smack in the chest and he started, almost unbalancing from his chair.

"Steve!" he said, and Steve did not like the surprise in his voice, as if his waking up was unexpected. Was he crippled? Disfigured? His shoulder ached dully.

"Who else would it be," he said lamely, his voice dragging against his dry throat. There was such unhindered joy contorting Rob's face he almost felt embarrassed for him. He certainly felt embarrassed for himself when Rob, smelling of aftershave, wrapped his arms around his neck, and then apologized thinking he'd probably hurt him in some way.

It _had_ hurt, twinged his shoulder, and the pain had run through his arm down to the tip of his fingers. But he wasn't going to admit it.

"I'm fine. Don't apologize." He still felt groggy, and if that was pain when he was on what was most likely morphine - then it would be much worse without it.

"I don't know what to say."

"That's a first," Steve said.

"Good, good, you're still sharp."

He didn't feel it. He wanted to close his eyes again, block out the lights.

"Can't you dim it a bit?"

Rob turned around quickly looking at the switches. "On or off, I'm afraid."

"Well turn them off. My head's killing me. And get me a glass of water."

"Bossy aren't you."

"Well I'd do it myself, but I'm hooked up to about 6000 different machines." He shifted a little to see what was more like two machines. It was disconcerting to watch is heart rate tick up and down behind him and he turned back to Rob who was fiddling with the light switches near the door.

"Well this one appears to do nothing, though I may have just sent a shock to your next door neighbor. Can you imagine that - if all you had to do was flip a switch on the wall, and zap!"

"Really, Rob just turn them down."

He flipped one and then the only light came from the monitor behind Steve's head and from under the door, casting an eerie sort of glow before Rob went over to the table he'd been sitting at before and turned on the small lamp there.

Thank you," he said appreciatively, exhaustively.

"How long have you been here and why are you the first person I have to wake up to. I'm fucking dead aren't I? This is my hell. Damned to eternity with your terrible welsh impressions."

"They're not terrible. They're authentic. And don't worry. I haven't been your only visitor. I had to battle the paparazzos to get in."

"You didn't?" Steve said with an exhausted whine.

"Oh yes, they can't wait to see dear Steve Coogan on the mend. You're front page news."

"Oh well, that's just fucking great."

"Great for publicity."

"Don't tell me the headlines-"

"'Intrepid Steven Coogan lost in dastardly desert' Wait. Wait. It gets better. 'Ah ha! We've found him!'"

"That's not real," Steve said and rubbed a hand across his eyes. He winced when the iv picc in his hand pulled.

Rob shrugged, for a moment growing quiet and it was strange to see him let everything drop, to just be a version of himself that didn't rely on quips or voices. It was a little concerning actually.

"No, about everyone you know must have been in here. Even Mischa was going to fly in."

More than anything he wanted out of this room. Feeling like a spectacle, something to pity made him eye the exit. "And yet instead of my son or Mischa or even a beautiful nurse, I get you."

"What nurse could beat this?" and Rob pointed to his face, cocking an eyebrow and giving a toothy grin.

"Oh no, please Rob, I can't take you right now."

"Oh Mr. Coogan, if I'd known that was on your mind, I would have come better prepared."

"Seriously, just shut up." And surprisingly he did, his gaze raking the floor. Had he been tapping his foot against the floor like that the whole time? Anxiety radiating off him? The silence was almost worse, because Steve didn't know how to interpret it.

"Look you don't need to be apologetic," he said.

Rob gave him a strange look. "For what?"

_For what?_ He was going to say for leaving, but he'd been the one that had forged ahead, tired of Rob, tired of about everything in that moment - thinking he would just wander, not caring that he didn't know where he was driving - not caring about having to sleep in the middle of the desert when the Range Rover had run out of gas; thinking it was just one more step towards wherever he was headed next. There had been a strange sense of finality to it - that something was going to end - it had been like looking at everything from behind a film - as if it was something happening to someone else - not his life - and it was easy in that moment to step back and let events transpire - and he'd felt that up until the point when he'd stepped outside into the cool air of the morning desert. He'd been pulled roughly back into himself when they'd surrounded him. He could still hear the pop when they'd twisted his shoulder out of the socket. He wouldn’t forget it. He brought a hand up to his shoulder and felt around the joint.

Rob was looking at his hands now. "Do you remember what happened?" He said after a moment, his foot stopped tapping as if he'd become aware of it.

"All a little too clearly," he said. He didn't like how it sounded. But he couldn't bring himself to add anything more.

"Where are we?" Steve asked.

"Back in Spain."

Steve was struck for a moment that Rob had come all this way, and he swallowed biting back the remark he had. He felt vulnerable enough as it was, he didn't need that knowledge on top of everything.

"You okay?" Rob asked.

"Yeah, yes, of course." It didn't sound convincing.

"That's not going to win you any Baftas," Rob said.

He gave a halfhearted laugh, only feeling half present - like Rob's words were mere things that glanced against him but didn't fully sink in.

"You know if you need someone to talk to -"

"Oh yes, Rob I can't wait to bear my soul to you." It came out harsher sounding than it had been in his head. He didn't regret saying it. Well, maybe a little. But Rob just shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair, as unfazed as ever.

"No one really knows, except you."

"It will certainly give you some new material to work with."

Steve gave him a half heated laugh.

"Oh look! Lunch!" Rob said. Taking the tray from the attendant who had peeked around the door. "Do you know they've just been leaving these here next to you. I never understood that. Why just sit it there when the person isn't even conscious?"

Steve turned up his nose at the hospital food. A sad piece of unmarinated chicken and something that might have passed for a blueberry cobbler but had since melted into puddle of runny berries and crystallized chunks of unrecognizable something or others. He repeated it to Rob. "Think you could work this into one of your reviews?"

"Epilogue perhaps?" Rob said and leaned forward staring at the tray, "And then Steve decided to proceed into his own solo foray of the culinary scene. What little did he know was that the choice to travel solo would bring him to the finest of establishments - where the food is served on aluminum trays and plastic dishes - truly the avant garde approach to fine dining. Skimping out on the seasoning is the post-modernist approach to food these days - and did Steve partake?"

Steve stared at the dish grimly, trying to cut into the chicken with the plastic fork, but finding the texture rubbery enough that it broke one of the tines.

"No. I’m afraid he did not. The food was so mind-blowing and tine-breaking he had to back off. After his defeat, he invites his good friend, Rob Brydon to try it, knowing that his palate has surpassed that of the typical taster, knowing that yes, Rob will know exactly how to interpret this dish."

Honestly Steve felt nauseous enough to not want to see the offending food anymore. "Good luck," he handed him the fork sans tine.

Steve chimed in, "This particular establishment had surpassed the need for the typical utensils relying on the simplest of instruments - the plastic fork - with tines that could break at any moment. Adding suspense to the meal - you never knew when one might break off mid-chew."

Rob had managed to somewhat wrangle the chicken, stabbing it with the remaining tines and pulling it apart with his other hand.

"All yours, mate," Steve said watching the display with some disgust.

"I feel badly taking food from the invalid."

"I'm perfectly fine," he pushed himself a little higher in the hospital bed.

"You sound fine."

"What do you mean?"

"You're slurring a little."

"Am not," he said. To prove his point he pushed himself up to a sitting position and turned so his feet were touching the ground.

"I wouldn't, you're probably hooked up to some kind of alarm."

"Well help me get this stuff off then."

Rob looked at him wide-eyed. "I'm not going to be an accomplice in your wild escape attempt."

He did feel kind of dizzy and he closed his eyes swaying a little. When he next opened them, Rob was there looking concerned and holding his arms out as if Steve were planning to leap into them.

"You don't have to stand so close."

He watched as Rob hesitated, his hands dropping to his side. More than anything he wanted out of here. And he wasn't going to admit it, but Rob was probably right in his concern. Before he could make more of a fool of himself, he sat back down, hating how much strength it took to pull his legs back up on the gurney. He crossed his arms and stared at the wall glumly.

"You sure know how to ruin a good vacation," Rob said.

"Was it good, though?"

"I saw you having a good time. I did. I definitely saw it. You were enjoying my company."

"Well, you were getting really irritating with the Roger Moore impressions near the end there. And you know I’m better at them so you were just digging yourself a deeper hole by that point."

"What could you possibly mean?" Rob slipped into his idea of what Roger Moore sounded like.

"Oh, please, if I'm literally tied to the bed, this is tantamount to torture, Rob."

"Is that what happened?"

"In the desert?"

Rob nodded, picking once again at the dried out husk of chicken.

"No." Steve said not liking how defensive it came out. It still didn't feel like it was a thing that had happened to him. He supposed the whole thing just hadn't come together for him yet and he dreaded when it would.

"Okay. Okay. I won't pry, but that was small fish compared to what the nation is going to want to know. What all those hungry reporters salivating on the steps outside want to know."

"I suppose they'll just have to keep drooling then. How are those reviews coming?"

"Well current events had put a stop to them, actually."

He wanted nothing more than to disappear in that moment. Infamy something he was apparently good at obtaining was not really what he wanted to be known for, even if there was a tiny bit of him that thrilled at the idea of it, in execution though it made him feel awkward. He was more adept at channeling that through is work rather than letting it co-mingle with his real life. His characters were a way to separate the unease from himself. A form of protection in away - if he could wrap himself in another identity - then his own failings weren't as pronounced - perhaps it had all been a joke in the end anyway. But now he felt stripped and scrutinized - and maybe it was why he hadn't pushed himself farther - stood up and walked away, because he was scared - in here, there was a familiarity in Rob, in the jest of closeness they found in their travels, but still - outside of this room there were questions and the toll of having to pull it all together and then what? Just go back to everything? Pretend that nothing had changed? A week shouldn't define a trajectory but he was already afraid that it would.

***

He was being prickly, though when wasn’t he? Rob reflected while watching him. He was surprised he hadn't been more concerned about the stitches across his cheek bone, then again he hadn't looked in a mirror. He had been sure there would have been an endless barrage of questions, but he was being somber and quieter than usual. He tried to imagine himself in that situation, but it was impossible. It was something that happened in movies - not something to a comedian writing restaurant reviews.

Steve always had the desire to be something a little more and look where that got you - he should have felt a shock of self-righteousness but it just wasn't there. Steve was lucky to be alive - and Rob didn't want to think about the alternative, but it kept creeping its way in. He almost lost his friend. He couldn't help himself from worrying about what the aftermath would entail. What the rebound would be like. One could only pretend to be someone else for so long. Somethings just brought the truth out. The vulnerability of Steve in that moment was almost lurid - they were both people who played their cards close to their chests - a persona they had built for their careers around - it was hard not to live it as well - also between them it was a bit of a competition - one showing each other up. There had always been volatility to their relationship - but Rob saw it in most of Steve's interactions - and if not volatility then a stand-offishness.

Right now he wasn't sure what the best approach was, sitting in silence was making him uncomfortable and he flipped through the pages of Don Quixote.

"Stop moping," Steve said. "For God sakes do some impressions or something. You're making me uncomfortable."

That he could do. He launched into the regular repertoire and he saw Steve close his eyes - but it wasn't in vexation - almost a relief, he thought, which was strange and he would throw in one of his own impressions every so often - and it almost felt right - it certainly felt familiar - and for now that would have to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This isn’t RPF... right??? I keep telling myself that haha  
Also why has it been five years since anyone wrote fic for the trip???  
Also can someone give me a better title


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